


Nothing More Than a Whore

by PleasingTheDragon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adultery, Blackmail, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Punishment, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 20:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15057443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PleasingTheDragon/pseuds/PleasingTheDragon
Summary: Ishmael breaks in and rapes Zaphir in his own home under pretense of punishing him for sleeping with Ishmael's wife. Zaphir struggles during and after with blaming himself for the attack and the way his body seemed to enjoy it, convinced he's still nothing more than the whore he once was.





	Nothing More Than a Whore

**Author's Note:**

> Old AU.

The house was quiet, everyone having left after the dinner party, and Zaphir settled into bed, drapes drawn closed around him, with a glass of white zinfandel, a soft orb of light to read by, and the latest cheap romance novel he'd picked up at the used bookstore that cute girl ran. The one with the curly hair and sculpted cheekbones and jaw. Gabriel? Was that her name? Zaphir entertained some less than decent thoughts of her while his eyes followed the lines of text. Incidentally the leading lady, a miller's daughter, had dark curly hair. As she invited the hero into her bed chambers Zaphir found himself picturing Gabriel in his mind's eye and setting his wine aside he let his hand wander under the blankets. He was so engrossed in the scene, with flushed cheeks and lower lip caught between his teeth, that he didn't notice the back door squeaking open. The quiet click of claws on ceramic tile didn't register either, his mind too focused on the miller's daughter clinging to her hero as skirts were pulled up and a hand slid between her legs. Even when the bottom step of the stairs creaked he pushed the blankets out of the way, working his hand over his cock, eyes fixed on the page. It was only when the doorknob started to turn that he jumped in guilt and alarm - magelight flickering out - jerking the blanket up and scrambling to the far side of the bed where his handgun sat loaded in a small safe, hastily pulling the drawer open. His slippery fingers stumbled over the combination lock as the door swung open. Now heavy footsteps crossing the hardwood floor, the safe sprang open. Weight on the bed. Spinning, gun in hand. Safety off. A shot rings out in the dark just as the gun is wrenched from his hand - the sound of shattered glass. The butt of his own handgun cracks across Zaphir's cheekbone and calloused fingers close on his throat, cutting off his air and forcing him onto his back. Panicked he pushes and claws at the weight on top of him but a swift knee to his groin drives the air out of him and he's too occupied with the pain between his legs and in his face and the all too apparent lack of air to keep resisting his attacker. Traitorous tears prick at his eyes and he barely manages to discern a familiar face in the dark. "Ishmael? What are you doing?"

  
  
A derisive snarl and fingers tighten. "Do you really have to ask?" Hot breath caresses Zaphir's jaw and he cringes, the violence of the moment mingling sickly with the intimate brush of lips against his ear. "You think I didn't notice you touching my wife?"

  
  
Zaphir's heart drops, cold sweat dampening his armpits and palms. "I'm sorry," he manages to choke out the words but anything further is interrupted by that knee pressing even harder.

  
  
"Do you think saying you're sorry magically erases each mark of your mouth on her neck?" Ishmael's tone is disgusted and Zaphir can't help but agree, revulsion directed at himself flooding his mind as Ishmael's actions mirror the accusations. Fingers pull thick, black hair, teeth bite at his lower lip, a quickly stiffening cock grinds against his thigh through denim. The hand around his neck drops and Zaphir gasps for oxygen, too far in shock to take advantage of this sudden liberty. He's borderline delirious, only half comprehending what's happening until that now free hand squeezes his already bruised balls, quickly abandoning them to prod at his asshole. "Since you don't have a pussy, I'll guess I'll just have to make do with this." Zaphir's whole body clenches at those words and he's instantly clawing for Ishmael's face, snarling and ready to inflict whatever damage necessary to escape. Teeth close on his wrist and he yelps in pain at bones grinding and flesh tearing. Blood is running freely down his arm but he's still fighting until Ishmael twists his good arm behind his back until those bones threaten to splinter. Whimpering at the pain radiating through his body he finally gives in, dropping against the bed.

  
  
"Good boy." A sick smile is clear in Ishmael's voice. "Besides, you'd have stopped fighting eventually," and he leans in close, tongue caressing Zaphir's trembling ear and neck, "Especially since I happen to know your boyfriend wouldn't appreciate what you've been up to with his precious daughter."

 

A kiss that in other circumstances would be soft and sweet turns Zaphir’s stomach but an iron grip on his jaw keeps him from pulling away. Besides, Ishmael doesn't have to verbalize his threat. Zaphir knows if he doesn't cooperate Ishmael  _ will _ spill his secret and he won't be the only one suffering for it - so when fingers return to between his legs, claws prodding at his asshole he tries his hardest not to resist. His eyes screw shut in discomfort and he inhales a deep breath, exhaling ever so slowly. If he can just remember his trai-

 

“A-ah! Fuck!” tears streak down Zaphir’s cheeks at the sudden intrusion and he can't help but cling to Ishmael’s shirt. Those first tears are just the start of a river, sobbing as a hand lifts his thigh and another finger bullies its way in. It burns but despite the discomfort the brushes against his prostate send a shiver down his spine and the rush of blood to his groin has a wave of nausea wracking his stomach. He almost feels relief as Ishmael’s hand retreats and the shiver at the soft grip on his emerging cock still twists his stomach and the tears don't stop but his hips jerk into the contact anyway.

 

“You like that?” Zaphir doesn't want it to but his stomach clenches in anticipation and his legs part a little as if of their own accord at the tic of Ishmael’s fly. Hot breath against his cheek as hips settle between his thighs and his mind finally settles into a trance he hasn't needed for decades. Finally his muscles relax into their training and the push of that slick, dripping cock against his asshole doesn't hurt quite as much as he expects.

 

The insults and accusations, the fingers around his neck, the pull on his hair, it's all lost in the fog. His mind clings to the vaguely pleasant sensation of rough lips on his smooth ones - he doesn't want it but autopilot is in full control and the brief brush of lips turns into a deep kiss, tongues tangling and twisting. His guts ache from the brutal fucking he's receiving and he wants to just sob and cry and scream and fight but his hips roll with Ishmael’s thrusts, fucking himself on that thick cock. The harsh rub against his prostate has his cock slapping against his stomach, precum matting his treasure trail into a sticky mess. Zaphir hates himself for it, for grabbing at Ishmael’s thick blonde hair, for the hoarse moan that rips from him when he flings his leg over a broad, muscled shoulder.

 

He desperately wants to sink his claws into hard flesh, to free himself. Maybe it's all a dream. Maybe this is all some sick dream. Some twisted, fucked up nightmare brought on by the guilt of what he did. Of what Astarte and he did. Of his hands holding her legs up, their mouths desperately mingling. Muffled moans behind the closed library door. Astarte's gasping laughter when he mentioned the risk of Ishmael catching them in the act. 

 

The thought brings him crashing back to reality and the trance is gone. His body screams for release, both from the pain and the stress and the damned fucking bliss building up in his groin. His legs are shaking and his horns gouge the headboard with each push of Ishmael’s hips. Tears prick at his eyes again and he finds himself pleading aloud, just finish, just end it, he's sorry, he’ll never go near Astarte again, he'll never so much as look at Sam, just please end it.

 

Ishmael’s hand closes on Zaphir’s cock and through the tears and pleading his hips jerk and roll into the fucking he's receiving and the quick strokes over the drooling head of his cock. Zaphir catches his tongue between his teeth to stifle a whorish moan and tastes blood. Between the moans and the sobbing he feels Ishmael's lips against his bruised and bleeding cheekbone and a soft but stern command, “Cum for me, bitch.” With a whimper that fills him with revulsion and shame, Zaphir buries his face in Ishmael’s neck as his cocks and twitches throb, cum weakly drooling onto his stomach.

 

Without the shallow veil of traitorous pleasure Zaphir can’t help but notice the pain wracking his body. His insides feel badly bruised and the warm liquid dripping down the crack of his ass can’t be anything but blood. His face throbs where the butt of the gun left a deep cut across his cheek and he tastes copper running his tongue over his stinging lower lip. The nausea returns and it takes real effort not to dry heave when Ishmael slips his tongue between Zaphir’s lips, the tentacle like appendage caressing his tongue, his mouth muffling Ishmael’s guttural moan. Zaphir’s hands drop to the sheets and turns his head, this time unhindered. He’s too numb to what’s happening to resist, just trying to think about something else, anything else, but all that fills his mind is the push of Ishmael’s hips knocking his horns against the headboard, the sick, wet slap of skin on skin, the hot, heavy breath against his neck. Slowly the sensations become distant, like there’s a heavy fog creeping over his mind. Soon his gaze is unfocused, the room just a blur before his glazed eyes. When Ishmael buries his cock hilt deep in Zaphir’s ass, pumping his raw guts full of cum, Zaphir hardly notices. Not even when Ishmael pulls out does he stir, just lays there barely anchored to reality as the other dragon moves off the bed, the shuffle of clothing. Only when Ishmael lightly slaps his cheek does Zaphir rouse from his trance.

 

“Such a good whore,” Zaphir blinks, eyes vaguely focusing on that smug face. “Now, remember to keep your promises or I’ll be back,” claws scrape over a battered cheekbone, “and your little secret won’t stay a secret any longer.”

 

~~~

 

Zaphir clings to the toilet, his stomach long since empty of anything but bile. His throat burns from all the vile acid that seared it on the way up with each otherwise dry heave. His eyes feel as if they're full of sand he's cried so much but now there aren't any tears left to cry. Not even a sniffle. He's just staring into the water in the toilet bowl, eyes glazed over and totally blank. He doesn't feel anything other than a crushing numbness and the intense shame. The shame that he’d vaguely enjoyed - no, that he’d gotten off on being raped.

 

No. It couldn’t be - if he enjoyed it - and he must have, the cold cum matting his treasure trail couldn’t possibly mean anything else - then it wasn’t rape. Rape didn’t feel good and rape victims definitely didn’t cling to their attacker and kiss them and beg for their cock. Victims were supposed to scream and fight and beg for mercy. He had, but the fact he’d moaned, thrown his legs over Ishmael’s shoulders, tangled his fingers in thick, silky, blonde hair, begged for more, it couldn’t matter that his training from his time in the brothel took over. It didn’t matter that he did fight and plead for mercy.

 

Ishmael was right. A lump rises in Zaphir’s throat and the tears start anew. A whore. That’s all he was, is, and ever will be. Why did he ever think otherwise? 


End file.
